The Firefighter, the Witch and the Closet
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: Dean’s apple pie life was going along quite nicely until a man stole his brother.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Firefighter, The Witch and The Closet

Author: Silverkitsune

Part: 1 of 5

Pairings: None

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Summary: Dean's apple pie life was going along quite nicely until a man stole his brother.

Warnings: Depending on what character you're talking to this may or may not be an AU.

Spoilers: Through Nightmare in Season one

Author's note: Special thanks to my very good friend Christie for her words of encouragement.

**Chapter 1- Dean Winchester, Firefighter**

"Sweet Jesus Sammy, you are the king of all geek boys!" Cradling the phone between his chin and shoulder, Dean tossed the flat popcorn bag into the microwave and punched in the appropriate time.

"Your finals are done. You're on vacation. Mom, dad and big brother are all out of the house for the night, and I call expecting to hear a party in the background. Instead you tell me you're reading?" he exclaimed, heading for the fridge. "What could you possibly need to do more reading for?"

On the other end of the line, his younger brother chuckled. "Dean, I know this is going to be shocking for you to hear, but some people, not many, but some, read for fun."

Dean snorted. "I raised you better than to be one of those people."

Sam laughed again. "Shouldn't you be off bonding with your fellow firefighters as you lay in wait for a cat to get stuck up a tree?"

The microwave bell dinged, and Dean set the two pops he'd retrieved from the fridge on top of the counter.

"We've bonded already. We're practically crazy glued to one another," Dean responded, holding the bag between his two fingers and shaking it.

"What do you want, Dean?"

"I want you to be a good little nerd and bring your ultra cool big brother his phone."

"What?" Sam cried. "No way! I'm not walking to your apartment in the snow."

"Those puny flakes?" Dean asked incredulously. "California has made you soft. This is nothing."

"Come on Dean," Sam sighed. "I'm ready to pass out over here. I was going to fall asleep with my nose in a paperback and not a textbook for once. Do you know how much I've missed paperbacks?"

"Please Sammy-" Dean begged leaning his hip against the firehouse's kitchen table.

"Don't call me that."

"Come on man. I'm expecting a call."

Dean could practically hear Sam roll his eyes. "Is your call from a girl? Are you joking?"

"I never joke about the ladies," Dean said with a smirk.

"Dean-"

"Winchester!" Jeffery's voice shouted from the living room. "What the hell are you doing in there? The game is starting."

"I'm coming. Give me five freaking minutes," Dean called back. Returning his attention to his brother, he ran a hand through his short hair. "Come on Sammy, I really like this girl."

"You always say that," Sam whined.

"You can drive the Impala."

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line.

"Really?"

Gathering up the popcorn and the cans of pop, Dean started for the living room. "About the car or the girl?"

"Both."

Dean sighed, "Yes, really. Dad and I were checking the breaks. We finished yesterday, but I got a ride to work so the car is still in the garage. Mom's extra set of keys should be in the basket on the kitchen counter." He dropped the snacks in front of Jeffery, a shorter, round faced black man five years his senior who gave Dean a nod of thanks before cracking open his drink. "Take the car, drive over to my place, get my phone, drop it off here, and then you can go home and live out your ultra dork existence."

"Well," Sam said hesitantly. "Alright, fine."

"Awesome. I'll be waiting." Dean shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "And Sammy," he said around chews.

"Yeah?"

"If you screw up my car, I'll kill you."

The dial tone was his only answer.

Grinning, Dean flopped down onto the seat next to Jeffery.

"What's the score?" he asked grabbing another handful of popcorn.

Jeffery pointed an accusing finger at the screen. "We're losing, because of _him_."

"The rookie?" Dean asked leaning forward. "Again?"

"Damn hot dog doesn't seem to know how to pass the ball," Jeffery grumbled.

Picking up his pop, Jeffery took a long pull, and belched.

"Go put that thing back on the charger before we lose it again," he said, motioning to the portable phone Dean had been using only moments ago.

"When a commercial comes on," Dean said, leaning back into the couch cushions.

"There's a commercial on now," Jeffery responded sweetly giving Dean a toothy grin.

"No there's not." Dean looked up at the T.V., and saw that the basketball game had been replaced by a cuddly teddy bear advertising fabric softener.

Throwing Jeffery a dark look, Dean snatched the phone off the table and stormed back into the kitchen.

"You're a bastard," he called over his shoulder.

The charger hung on the wall in the back of the kitchen next to the closet that they had turned into an extra food pantry years before Dean joined the department. Dropping the phone into the waiting slot, Dean turned smartly on his heels and started to make his way back to the other room when he heard a crash followed by a litany of muffled curses sound out from behind the flimsy wooden door.

Dean froze.

Grabbing one of the kitchen chairs by the legs Dean hefted it into the air. Keeping the chair's back facing the door he grabbed the doorknob, twisted the handle, and pulled. The kitchen light wasn't strong enough to flood the closet, but just enough managed to trickle into the smaller room to show off the recently restocked shelves of canned vegetables and dry cereals. A can of tomato soup rolled past his feet, and Dean kicked it out of the way. The back wall of the room was thick with shadows, but he could make out a shape pressed against the brick. Dean narrowed his eyes and stepped forward.

"Come out of there," Dean snapped.

The shape didn't move. Dean could feel a penetrating gaze slide over him, and he felt a cold chill run through his body. His fingers reflexively tightened around his makeshift weapon.

"Now," Dean barked. "Come out now."

There was a sigh, and the figure moved out of the shadows and into the light.

Dean blinked once, twice, three times, each time hoping that when he opened his eyes he wouldn't see his own face staring back at him. It was a much dirtier version of his face, shiny with sweat and streaked with dirt, but still his face. In fact, there were a lot of things he had assumed belonged only to him that were now staring back. His green eyes, his short blond hair, his lips, his hands, hell even his very annoyed expression, the one he'd been sporting only moments ago now were in the possession of another. Dean had been robbed plenty of times in his life, but never of something as important as his face.

The man held his hands out in front of him. There was a worn out map clenched in his left fist, and Dean could make out a thin, obviously hand drawn line running up one of the sides. The other man looked from Dean, to the chair, and then back to Dean. He walked slowly, stepping around the cans of soup that now littered the ground. One of the jars of spaghetti sauce lay broken on the floor, and the face stealer must have stepped in it because he left a trail of sloppy red prints behind him.

Cheers erupted from the other room, Jeffery's voice mingling among the hundreds of voices that leapt out of the speakers.

_Rookie must have made a basket_, Dean thought dumbly as he backed away from the approaching figure.

What he suspected was dried blood from an already clotted cut ran down the right side of the other man's temple. Mud was splashed across his leather coat, and there was dust streaked across his torn jeans.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asked.

The grin thrown back at his question was yet another piece of Dean's property, and he got a queasy feeling in his stomach at the sight of it. That grin had been Dean's since he was five, the one that had never failed at getting him a date on Saturday night or the extra cookie when he was a kid. How careless he must have been with it to have made it so easy for this stranger to pinch it off of him.

"No one important," his own voice answered. "In fact, I'm so unimportant that you can pretend this was all some freaky dream, and go back to doing," he took an interested glance at Dean's uniform, "Whatever it is that you were doing before I showed up. I'll just move on. Get out of your hair." He started for the door.

"No," Dean said, lifting the chair a little higher. "What the hell is this? Is this a prank? What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on that you need to know about," his voice reassured him. "Now get out of my way."

Dean didn't move. "What are you?" he asked softly.

The other man's stolen eyes narrowed.

"Irritated," he snapped. "And you know what? I do not have time to play Fox Mulder."

The chair was knocked out of Dean's hands before he could even register that the other man was moving. It crashed to the floor, sliding across the tile and into the kitchen cabinets. Dean heard Jeffery shout something at him from the other room. The other man shot past him. Dean grabbed the back of his coat, yanking him back to his side, but was unprepared for the punch his nose received at the maneuver. Whatever this was it could move like a cat.

The punch was hard enough to send him to the ground, his head hitting the tile with a painful thud. Stunned, he waited for the stream of colorful beams and spots to stop swimming across his eyes before sitting up. He groaned at the sight of the blood that coated his hand from his still bleeding nose. The floor vibrated slightly, and Dean looked up to see Jeffery kneeling next to him.

"Winchester. What the hell?"

Dean didn't answer, just scrambled to his feet and took off after his own personal doppelganger.

The trail was easy enough to follow thanks to the fading red spaghetti sauce prints the other man was leaving behind. The living area was on the second floor, the only exit through the garage, and Dean was confident that he would be able to catch the other man before he could make it onto the Lawrence city streets. He sprinted down the hall, taking a sharp turn onto the staircase before thundering down to the station's lower level. Darting around the trucks and the firehouse's ambulance he caught sight of the dirty leather coat, but he jerked to a stop when he saw what stood in front of it.

There were still bits of snow melting in Sam's shaggy brown hair, but even with the ungodly bangs hanging in his eyes, Dean could still see the worried look that shone out of them. His younger brother's hand hovered over the other man's cut temple.

"Sam, get away from him!" Dean cried, running straight for the leather coat, intending to tackle the thing to the ground.

Surprised, Sam looked from Dean to the dirty man in front of him, his hand frozen in mid-air. Before Sam could react, his outstretch hand was grabbed, his arm twisted behind him. Another arm came across his throat as he was pulled against the man he'd moments ago thought was his brother.

"Stop!" There was his voice again. Coming from another mouth, another set of vocal chords was _his _voice. Dean stopped so quickly he almost stumbled over his own two feet. He never thought he'd hear his own voice giving him orders, or that he would be so fast to obey them.

The two of them stared at one another, green eyes sizing up green eyes. Dean was sure that the only thing moving in the entire station was his own rapidly beating heart. He was grateful that the doppelganger hadn't stolen that from him as well.

"Let him go," Dean growled.

"Dean?" Sam questioned, his voice shaky.

"It's going to be fine, Sammy," Dean responded.

"It is?"

"Yeah," the voice of the doppelganger responded. "It is."

His brother twisted in an attempt to get a better look at what held him, but firm hands kept him in place.

"What do you want?" Dean hissed.

"Nothing either of you have," the man responded. It backed up several steps, pulling Sam with him, heading to the door. Dean tried to follow, but the move was rewarded by the doppelganger tightening the grip he had on Sam's wrist and throat.

"Stay there," the other man said again, his voice covering the whimper Dean was sure Sam had let out. "I'm not here to hurt anybody."

"That's not what it looks like," Dean said.

It was so strange to see his own face roll its eyes at him that he almost began to laugh.

"Well, this wasn't exactly Plan A," the doppelganger said, frustrated. It seemed to collect itself, and dragging Sam across the last few feet of floor it came to the door. "Stay in here. You stay in here and everything will be fine." He gave Dean a mega watt grin. "I promise." The handle twisted, and the doppelganger disappeared into the cold night, taking his brother with.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Firefighter, The Witch and The Closet

Author: Silverkitsune

Part: 2 of 5

Pairings: None

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Spoilers: Through Nightmare in Season one

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to comment on the previous chapter! Comments do the author good, and constructive criticism is always welcome. I hope you all continue to enjoy this.

**Chapter 2-Dean Winchester, Demon Hunter Extraordinaire **

It was winter in Lawrence, and Dean wondered if that meant something important or fascinating to someone considering that back home it was the middle of spring and humid as hell. Flakes of snow drifted by his nose before landing on his ungloved hands and melting on impact. There was no wind, just a still icy cold that radiated off the sidewalks and the tall brick buildings in front of him. The minute he'd stepped outside the cold had gently pressed its palms against the exposed flesh the holes in Dean's jacket and jeans had left open and vulnerable. The only warmth he had was pulsing out of the terrified young man he held in front of him.

"Do you have a car?" Dean asked. With his arm across the younger man's windpipe Dean could feel his hard breathing, and the way his Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed before answering.

"Yeah," he replied softly.

"Where is it?" Dean asked.

"In the alley. To the left."

Dean pushed him forward trying to ignore the cold, the chaffing knifes that were strapped to his ankles, the awkward position his holstered gun had fidgeted into, and the twist in his stomach that came from pushing a Sam look alike into the darkness. He felt better at the sight of the Impala sitting patiently in the alley.

"Nice car," Dean said appreciatively. "Keys?"

"They're in my jacket pocket," the other boy replied.

Dean spun him around. Pushing him against the Impala's passenger door he fished the keys out of the younger man's pocket.

"Well, this has been fun," Dean said once the keys were safely in his possession. "But I've got things to see and stuff to do, so you can, you know, scram." He motioned with his hand for the younger man to leave.

It all should have ended right there. The whole thing shouldn't have had a beginning, let alone an ending, but this moment was where Dean's little looking glass mishap should have ended. Unfortunately, as he was shooing Sam away, Dean noticed the hand doing the shooing was empty.

"My map," he said.

"Your what?" Sam's voice, so painfully familiar, asked.

"I had a map. Did you see a map?" Dean asked frantically looking back in the direction they'd just come from.

The brown haired man shook his head.

Dean glanced at the firehouse, then back to the double of his brother. "Do you know how to get to The Beaver Caves?" When he got no response, just a pair of confused brown eyes Dean slammed his hands onto either side of the other man, leaning in close. "Do you?"

Sam flinched at the movement, but nodded. Dean gritted his teeth in an effort to ignore the fear now rolling off the kid.

Dean took a deep breath, "Get in the car."

"But you said I could-"

Reaching around him, Dean opened the Impala's passenger side door. "Get. In. The. Car."

Clumsily, Sam bent his body and climbed in. Dean closed the door behind him before jogging to the other side. Slamming his own door he spared a glance at his unwilling co-pilot.

"Put your seat belt on," he grumbled, sliding the key into the ignition. He didn't bother to check if his instruction had been followed before backing out of the alley.

They passed houses first. Warm looking two story homes with families on the inside waiting out the cold night. A playground that not so much looked as felt familiar to Dean when they passed came and went, followed by a line of small privately owned businesses. One of the buildings had a neon sign stretched over the front door which glowed with the words "Psychic Readings" in purple letters. Slowly, the markings of civilization fell away, until it was just Dean and the Impala against the dark stretches of snow covered fields.

It would have been easy to relax. To pretend he was home, riding in the direction of some small town in Illinois with a poltergeist or an abandoned hotel in Indiana with a black dog. He had all the correct visuals; Sam as acting navigator, the Impala under his steady hand. Hell, he'd even spotted a tatted shoebox in the backseat. Still, he knew it wouldn't have worked. He would have known in his gut that something was off.

The Sam­ to his left had the same look, same hair, same tired bags under his eyes, but Dean was willing to bet they were the result of too much late night studying, and not from becoming a sleep deprived nightmare magnet. There was something missing from the steps made by this Sam; some cold, coiled tension that had been completely unavailable, utterly unnecessary in this body. There had been no attempt to throw him off when he'd grabbed him at the station either, and no trace of shadows in the brown eyes that had been filled with such surprise and worry. In this place, Sam was not a hunter, and from the look of the man he'd left behind at the firehouse, neither was he.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Dean said trying his best to sound like a rational human being and not a deranged psychopath.

Sam had been intently focused on his hands for the last half hour, and flinched at the sound of Dean's voice.

"Yeah, I know," Dean continued. "I wouldn't believe me either, but you have to trust me when I say I'm not going to hurt you. Do you understand?"

Sam raised his eyes from his hands, and studied Dean intently. "Why do you look like my brother?"

Dean shifted in his seat. "That's complicated. Well, ok it's not complicated. The answer is just going to make me sound really crazy."

Sam's attention went back to his hands. "Oh."

"Not crazy like serial killer crazy," Dean quickly added. "Just strange crazy."

"There's a turn coming up," Sam responded softly. "It's always really icy in the winter. You'll have to slow down, and take it at a crawl."

Dean lightened the pressure on the accelerator and watched as the dial on the speedometer dropped. _Fifty-five mph to fifty; fifty to forty-five_. His eyes shifted over to Sam, whose tall body was trying to merge with the door. _Forty-five to forty; forty to thirty-five_. It was unnerving to see Sam so frozen by fear. _Thirty-five to thirty to twenty-five_. The kid was painfully defenseless, and as innocent about what went bump in the night as the countless number of people Dean had saved. _Twenty-five to twenty_; _twenty_ _to_ _fifteen_. He had a sudden urge to pull the car over and make this kid lift up his shirt, just to see what Sam might have looked like without the roadmap of scars a lifetime of hunting had decorated him with. However, he had enough common sense to know that a move like that would be a monumentally bad idea. _Fifteen mph_. Dean drummed his fingers against the wheel, drawing comfort from the familiar action. He was just going to have to be patient about the whole thing, and try not to traumatize this version of his brother anymore than he already had. _Ten_ _mph_.

Dean caught the blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and Sam had both hands on the wheel and his bony shoulder digging into Dean's chest before his could so much as blink.

The Impala's tires squealed as the car spun. Dean fought briefly for control of the wheel before giving up and focused his attention on pumping the break as they twisted. He felt the back end of the car slide off of the road, and there was a dip and a bump, and then the car came to a jerky stop.

"What the hell was _that_!" Dean yelled. Sam had already unbuckled his seat belt and was halfway out of the car. Dean unbuckled his own belt and dove across the seats in one fluid movement. Grabbing the other man's jacket, he hulled him back into the Impala. Reaching over him, Dean pulled the passenger door shut. A swift punch suddenly landed in his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Another fist hit him squarely in the nose and Dean felt more than heard the bones crunch.

"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed.

With gritted teeth, Dean pulled away from the fists, and Sam shot up moving for the door again. Catching the collar of his jacket, Dean yanked Sam onto his back across the Impala's front seats. Grabbing the younger man's wrists with one hand, he pressed his other hand against the exposed throat. Sam struggles came to a quick end.

The two men stared at one another, breathing hard. Sam's eyes darted wildly around the car's interior. Dean's hand was firmly pressed against the other man's windpipe, and stared down at the other man with a scowl.

"What are you crazy? You could have flipped us!" Dean shouted his voice getting louder with every word. "What part of the, 'I'm not going to hurt you' conversation that we had like three seconds ago didn't you get?"

Releasing Sam's wrists and throat, Dean closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. His nose was bleeding and throbbing, but it would have to be something he dealt with later. When he opened his eyes he found Sam sitting upright, once again pressed against the passenger side door.

"Say here," Dean said, with a hard glare. "I'm going to check for damages. You can try to run if you want, but you won't get far. Trust me when I say that I am much faster than you."

Opening his door Dean stepped out into the cold. His feet sunk into the snow as he circled the car, and he was grateful for the biker boots since they were the only reason his socks weren't soaking wet.

"Pain in the ass," Dean muttered darkly, bending down to get a better look at the Impala's back tires. "No matter where I go, or what version of him I run into he is always one huge pain in the ass."

Standing again, he gently kicked one of the tires with the heel of his boot. They hadn't sustained injury. That was good.

"Freaky, nerdy, choir boy, geek," Dean grumbled making his way back to the front seat. "Long banged, brooding, emo, eunuch, with no tolerance, and absolutely no sense of fun."

Curling his fingers around the handle he gave the door a pull. It stayed shut. Dean's litany of insults came to a halt. He tried the handle again, but the door wouldn't budge. Pressing his nose against the window, he saw the Impala's keys dangling from the ignition. Sam was on a cell phone talking quickly to whoever was on the other line.

Dean pounded his fist against the glass.

"Unlock this door!" he demanded.

Sam glanced at him, and shook his head.

"Sam!" Dean growled. "Let me in you little-Oh! You did not just flip me off!"

The younger man was glaring at him now. Readjusting his grip on the cell, he pulled his legs up and lifted them across the front seat, crawling over to the steering wheel.

"Shit!" Dean snapped, slamming his hand against the side of the car. "Sam, so help me if you don't open this door right now I will do something you, me and the car are all going to regret!"

Sam didn't respond, too busy trying to fold his tall gangly body in the positions he needed to maneuver in the small space of the Impala.

Backing away from the front door, Dean pulled his gun out of his holster. Flipping off the safety he pointed it at the driver side's backseat window, and fired. The first shot sailed in through the backseat's window and out of the car via a newly created hole in the back window. Dean fired again, this bullet imbedding itself into the leather upholstery, and the last two shots entered and exited the same way the first had. Pulling his jacket off, Dean wrapped the leather around his hand before using the butt of the gun to smash away the rest of the glass. Once unlocked, he pulled the door open, and slid into the backseat.

Sam's wide eyes greeted him. The cell phone was clutched in his hand with a white knuckle grip, and the younger man's mouth hung open in shock. Dean could hear another voice shrieking out of the ear piece. Plucking it out of Sam's still fingers, Dean brought the phone to his ear only to pull it away after a shout almost blew away his ear drum.

"Sam!"

Dean frowned.

_My voice does not sound like that_, he thought.

"Sam! Sammy! For Christ sake! Sammy!"

"He's fine," Dean finally responded, fiddling with the volume on the side of the phone in an effort to save what little hearing he had left.

There was a pause, and it went on for so long that Dean thought the phone had dropped the call.

"Hello?" Dean asked.

"If you hurt my brother I'll kill you."

When Dean had stumbled out of the firehouse closet, the first thing he'd noticed about his alternate universe self was the uniform. Dean had always held a certain affinity for firefighters, and while this version of him needed a few karate lessons, he had to admit that he'd felt a small niggling of approval at this Dean's chosen profession. It hadn't been until later, when he'd seen the man's face shift into a look of absolute rage at the fact that a dangerous person had a hold of his little brother that Dean had felt approval for the man himself.

"God damn it. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," Dean answered. "And I am not going to hurt him."

"I want to talk to him. Let me talk to him."

Broken glass glittered across the seat and the floor. One of the larger pieces lay next to the battered shoebox Dean had seen earlier. A glint of light from the cell phone bounced of the shard, and frowning Dean bent down tracing his hand over the area surrounding the box. It had looked strange in the temporary light, and the feeling of soft fabric under his touch only solidified Dean's suspicion. Gathering a good amount of the fabric between his fingers, Dean pulled. The box, which had been resting on top, tipped, spilling its contents onto the ground as Dean pulled up a folded blanket. Surprised, Dean pushed the blanket to the side and retrieved the items that had been stored in the shoebox; a first aid kit, a flashlight, extra batteries and a small coil of rope.

"Were you a Boy Scout or something?" Dean asked, curious.

"Wha-What?"

The rope in his hands, Dean straightened up, and made his way to the front seat. "Nothing. It's not important."

"My brother-"

"In a minute," Dean said. Sliding into the driver seat, Dean set both the cell phone and his gun onto the floor.

"Give me your hands," he demanded looking expectantly at Sam.

Sam obliged, and Dean made a quick job of binding them together, knotting the rope tightly around the wrists.

Retrieving the phone, Dean pressed it against the younger man's ear.

"Hi," Sam said, arching his head in such a way that he could speak into the phone without having to be too near Dean's hand. "Yeah, I'm ok. No. No. Yeah. He's got a gun, Dean. No. I-"

"Tell him you have to go," Dean said gently. The look of despair and terror Sam shot him made Dean feel ill. He wondered when exactly he'd gone from Dean Winchester, demon hunter, and protector of the innocent to Dean Winchester, evil, kidnapping, bastard.

Sam bit his lower lip, and took a shaky breath. "Dean, he's says I've got to go. I-what? No, I-Dean?"

Pulling the phone away, Dean shut off the power and deposited the device into his coat pocket. Re-holstering his gun, he gave the keys a twist and the Impala roared to life.

"Did you tell him where we were going?" Dean asked casually.

"Yes."

"Figured as much," Dean said. Reaching into the backseat he grabbed the blanket and tossed it over the younger man's lap.

"Going to be a cold drive," he said. "Try to stay warm."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Firefighter, The Witch and The Closet

Author: Silverkit

Part: 3 of 5

Pairings: None

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Summary: Dean's apple pie life was going along quite nicely until a man stole his brother.

Spoilers: Through Nightmare in Season one

Author's Note: A large pile of thanks and well-wishes to all of you that reviewed! You're beautiful people. I'm a little nervous about this chapter. It was a pain to get out. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 3-Dean Winchester, Firefighter**

Dean Winchester was the son of John Winchester, an ex-marine who was extremely proud of the time he'd spent in the service of his country. The fireman had an entire store of fond memories that involved being allowed to stay up late to watch whatever war movie that his father could find on television. They would curl up on the floor, Dean, Sammy, his dad and a bowl of popcorn, usually falling asleep with the _ratatata_ sound of a machine gun blasting out of the speakers. His dad had been obsessed with _Band of Brothers_, and kept a running countdown of the days until _Saving Private Ryan_ had come out on DVD. However, both of his parents had made it very clear that if either he or Sam wanted to mess around with guns they were quite welcome to do so once they'd been old enough to join the police force or the marines (not the army, not the navy, not the air force, the _marines_). Dean had never had a problem with the rule. He'd been in a grand total of three fights in his life, and each of those times his fists had been all he needed. He'd never been interested in hunting down anything except girl's phone numbers, and he would much rather used his hands to mess around with whatever engine parts he could find than in loading up a .45 (or whatever).

There was exactly one gun in the firehouse. A handgun, given to his superior a few years ago when the Village had attempted to merge the fire and police departments together. A doomed plan, but one they'd been forced to attempt anyway. While he himself hadn't been issued a gun, he had been taught the basics. Flip off safety, point here, shoot that, clip goes here, the basics. He hadn't been a crack shot like Martha who vacationed in the Canadian woods whenever she could to hunt elk, or as accurate as Jeffery who thought the whole idea was idiotic anyway, but he'd been ok. The firehouse gun had been entrusted to his captain, but the man had been raised a Quaker, and having never seen the need for it in the first place, hadn't ever taken the weapon out of the box. Instead, he'd put the ammo in a locked cabinet on the second floor, and tucked the gun into the bottom drawer of his desk.

Only moments after Dean had darted back into the firehouse, the image of the Impala roaring down the city streets and away from him burned into his eyes, Jeffery had grabbed him.

"What's going on?"

"It took Sammy," were the only words Dean had managed to choke out.

Jeffery had been the first to move, running back up the stairs to the phone, calling over his shoulder about the police and getting Martha, who wasn't suppose to have her shift for a few more days, to the station.

"You're in no shape to go chasing after fires," Jeffery had shouted.

Watching his co-worker's retreating back, Dean had silently agreed. Fires would have to wait.

He had waited until the other man was out of sight before breaking into his superior's office and stealing the gun. Retrieving the clips from the second floor while Jeffery's calm voice spoke with the 911 operator had been done on silent feet, and with no small amount of guilt he'd snagged his co-worker's car keys, lifting them out of the man's coat pocket before heading for the door. He was half way down the stairs when he noticed the map. The thing was brand new, the paper stiff and crisp under his fingers. The jagged hand-drawn line was purple, and it only took a few seconds for Dean to see where the endpoint lay.

The Beaver Caves were a two hour drive from Lawrence, and a part of a larger forest preserve. Dean had taken Sam there numerous times when the younger man had been in high school busting his ass in AP biology. His mom had taken them spelunking when they were kids, and it had been the site of an annual field trip when Dean had been in elementary school. As a kid it had seemed like such an adventure to climb around the trees and crawl deep into the caves that seemed to go on forever. Now all he could think was that this _thing _had a forty-five minute head start on him, and if he brought Sam into those caves or those woods it could be days before Dean was able to find him. If he found him at all.

The gun felt cold and alien in Dean's hands, and he'd been glad to let it rest on the seat next to him as he drove so that he didn't have to touch it. Now though, with the sound of Sam's frantic confession of "Dean he's got a gun" still ringing in his ears he found himself pulling the car onto the side of the road and picking the object up.

Holding it in his hands felt wrong on more levels that Dean had the time or patience to identify. His entire life had been spent saving people, protecting them, and here he was cradling a gun on the side of the Kansas' highway. His mom would be furious, and rightly so. But Dean's last contact with Sam had left a taste of bile in the back of his throat, and a violent mix of anger, terror and helplessness all fighting for dominance. Locking his jaw, he set the weapon onto the passenger seat and pulled back onto the road.

The Beaver Caves' parking lot was large and, at first glance, empty. Dean steered Jeffery's car around a number of unlit lamp posts, paying no mind to the neatly created parking lanes. It was during one such maneuver that the headlights caught sight of the Impala waiting patiently in the middle of the lot, stretched over three parking spaces, and illuminated with the light of a single lamp post that glowed brightly against the dark snowy evening. Killing the engine, Dean hesitated for a moment before grabbing the gun out of its holster.

The cold slammed into him the minute he stepped outside. There was a wind in this area, coming in across the plains. Dean wrapped his arms around his body, grateful that he'd remembered to grab his coat before getting on the road. Breaking into a jog, he crossed the lot. When he spotted the broken back window, and then the shaggy brown head that was in the passenger seat, but not moving, his jog became a sprint.

The door was locked, and Sam was blindfolded. At the sound of the jiggling door handle Sam's head turned in his direction.

"Sammy," Dean called. "It's me, hang on. Ok?"

Making his way to the other side, Dean reached into the backseat via the broken window and unlocked the car. Running back to Sam he flung the door open and kneeled down to get a better look at his brother. The younger man's hands were bound, as well as his ankles and the checkered blanket he always kept in the backseat had been spread out over his lap. The thoughtful gesture had done little to keep the cold at bay since the younger man's teeth were chattering, his body shivering. A piece of the blanket had been torn off and fastened around his younger brother's eyes.

Setting the gun by his feet, Dean quickly undid the knot that kept the blindfold secure.

"You alright?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't respond. His eyes flickered to Dean's bruised nose, his unbloodied temple, his clean fleece jacket.

"Dean?" he asked.

Dean grinned at him. "The one and only." He paused. "Well…"

Sam's face crumbled.

"Oh, god Dean," he said, his voice wavering between a moan and a sob.

"It's cool, Sam," Dean reassured, his eyes checking his brother for bruises and cuts, his hands ghosting through Sam's hair in search of lumps. "It's completely fine. Did it hurt you?"

Sam shook his head. "No," he answered his voice once again under control. "I'm alright. In fact I think I broke its nose."

"That's my boy," Dean said, pulling his jacket off and draping it across his brother's shoulders. Lifting up the bound hands, Dean frowned at the tight knot that held the rope together. "I've got a knife in the trunk."

"You're such a freaking Boy Scout, Dean," Sam said, giving him a weak impersonation of a grin.

"Hey," Dean reprimanded. "Eagle Scout, Sammy. Give credit where credit is due."

"And you call me a geek," the younger man responded. His head swerved in the direction of the woods and caves. "Hurry. I don't know how long it will be until he gets back."

The trunk release was on the driver's side, underneath the steering wheel and next to the parking break. Bending over the seat, he had just pulled the lever when he heard Sam's warning shout. His head shot up, and came in contact with something hard. He weaved, stumbling out of the car and into the parking lot. His stolen face, now even more identical due to the nose jobs they'd both received that day, scowled back at him. He'd left the gun by Sam's feet. He was in trouble.

Dean lunged, throwing the first punch. The doppelganger dodged, and Dean gagged as a fist met his stomach sending whatever he'd had for dinner onto the pavement.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear Sam shouting.

Twisting away, Dean pivoted on his heels and threw himself forward. Wrapping his arms around the other man's midsection his momentum sent them crashing to the ground. Dean's elbow came down hard on the other man's shoulder, but he was unprepared for the strength of the monster as he was grabbed by the shirt and flipped onto his back.

"Sorry man," his doppelganger said before throwing a punch that hurtled him into darkness.

He woke up with a ringing in his ears, a coppery taste in his mouth and the knowledge that he was sitting up. Keeping his eyes closed Dean swallowed the moan that wanted to slip between his lips, and started to take inventory of his many aches. His nose, which had been a dull throbbing companion during his drive was just the tip of the iceberg, and in fact must have been a very generous injury since it had decided to share the throbbing with his head. His hands were behind his back and tied together. The same had been done to his ankles. Still able to move his fingers, he brushed them up and down the smooth interior that he would have recognized anywhere as the leather of his Impala. There was something else over his chest, and allowing his eyes to open into tiny slits he allowed himself a quick glance. His seat belt had been buckled.

Raising his head, he found that he was in the backseat. His doppelganger was in the driver's seat twisted so that he was face-to-face with his brother. The monster had a firm grip on Sam's chin, making the younger Winchester face him as well. When the doppelganger leaned in, Dean felt his stomach drop into his shoes.

"Hey!" he snapped. "Hey!"

"You're awake?" the doppelganger said, surprised.

"Don't touch my brother," Dean hissed, his attention on the hands that were on Sam.

His double blinked at him, and his head pin-balled from Sam's face to Dean's and then to his hands. Understanding, accompanied by a slight blush, blossomed over the other man's face.

"I wasn't going to-! Why the hell would you think I-? Incest once removed isn't really my thing, ok!" His double snapped, embarrassment and frustration coloring his tone. "Do I have the word 'pervert' tattooed on my forehead or something? He hit his head on the steering wheel trying to get to your dumb ass." The doppelganger held up the first aid kit in his free hand and shook it. "I cleaned it, and am now bandaging it so that he won't bleed all over the car."

Dean wonder if the sudden dizziness he felt was a result of the head injuries.

"There," the doppelganger said, carefully pressing a butterfly bandage across Sam's temple. "All done."

Twisting in his seat, the doppelganger buckled his belt and turned the key. The slow hiss of the heater filled the now silent car, and the Impala growled from underneath them. Dean noticed a torn part of what had once been his checkered blanket duck tapped over the broken back window.

"Where are you taking us?" Dean asked as the car crept across the empty parking lot.

"Back to the firehouse," the doppelganger answered. "I got what I needed, and now I'm going home."

"Where's home?" Sam asked curiously.

"Somewhere around the ninth layer of hell, right?" Dean grumbled. He flexed his wrists several times, hoping to loosen the rope that held him.

The doppelganger shot him a dirty look in the rearview mirror. "Home's pretty far from here."

"Then why the firehouse? What's there?" Sam asked.

"Sammy," Dean warned, not sure if these questions were going to piss this thing off and get it to do bodily harm to anything Dean happened to love.

"Only one way to get home. I've got to go back the same way I came in,"' the doppelganger responded. "Through the closet in the kitchen."

There was a sound from the passenger seat. The noise started as a low chuckle, and then slowly built upon itself until Sam was laughing so hard he was in tears.

The doppelganger raised an eyebrow. "Um, ok?"

"Sammy?" Dean asked with concern. The laughter sounded like it was bordering on hysterical.

"What? What do you do?" Sam snorted, trying to get his words to fit around the bubbles of laughter that were cutting through the tension that hung about the car. "Head straight past the spaghetti sauce then take a left at Narnia?"

Both the doppelganger and Dean stared back at the younger man with blank faces.

"Narnia?" Sam said, still choking on his snickers and wheezy laughter. "_The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe_? C.S. Lewis? Talking beavers? Aslan? The White Witch?"

Dean wondered if Sam was going to be on the receiving end of a punch in the near future, and the thought made his rope loosening effort double. The doppelganger, however, chose to do something far worse. It smiled. The sight of it had Dean's hair standing on edge.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Firefighter, The Witch and The Closet

Author: Silverkit

Part: 4 of 5

Pairings: None

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Summary: Dean's apple pie life was going along quite nicely until a man stole his brother.

Spoilers: Through Nightmare in Season one

Author's Note: First off, many, many thanks to my dear beta reader Michelle who is an amazing person. Also, thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed and enjoyed this story so far Every comment you have submitted has been fantastic, and every theory has got me thinking. Enjoy!

**Chapter 4- Dean Winchester, Demon Hunter Extraordinaire**

Dean had never exactly needed confirmation, but he would always considered this the official moment when he knew that Sam was the biggest geek boy to ever grace the planet no matter what universe he was in.

Narnia? For Christ sake.

Flipping on his turn signal, Dean carefully steered the car around one of the icier curves in the road.

Sam's laugh had made it harder to not see this kid as his Sam, and he'd had to fight the urge to deliver a playful punch to the younger man's shoulder. For two seconds it had been Sam in the passenger seat. Healthy (if freaked out), laughing (if terrified), even taking digs at him. It was all Sam, and that was a dangerous thought because he didn't know this kid, not really. He didn't know how this Sam and Dean Winchester had missed being pulled into the life of hunting, didn't know if their mother was still alive or whether or not Jess had met any sort of horrible fate in this place. Suddenly, he was hungry for information.

Dean shot the still snickering Sam a curious look. It was a bad idea. The questions he had would come back to bite him in the ass, he just knew it. The firefighter in the backseat was still glaring daggers at him, and Dean caught the badly hidden twists and movements that came from his escape attempt.

_Dad taught me to tie better knots than that, dude_.

Still, it was a long ride back to Lawrence, and while he was extremely curious about the goings on in this place he was beginning to notice another, stronger, emotion surfacing. Suspicion.

"Soooo," Dean said drawing the word out. "Sammy, what's your mom like?"

Sam seemed taken back at the quick change in subject. "What?"

"Why the hell would you want to know about our mom?" asked a growl from the backseat.

"Just trying to make conversation," Dean said airily. "So how about it, Sam? Your mom, what does she do?"

Sam's eyes darted from Dean to his brother before answering. "Question for a question?"

"Sam!" came a hissing voice from the back.

"Calm down back there, big brother," Dean said.

_Too curious for your own good, Sammy _he thought.

"Alright, you have a deal."

"A bakery," Sam said. "She works for a bakery."

"Really?" Dean asked, trying to remember if his own mother had gotten any delight out of the culinary arts.

"Yeah," Sam licked his lips. "She's their accountant. She's really good with numbers."

Dean grinned. "No shit."

"What about your mom?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Dean blew a puff of air out of his nostrils that came out as a cloud of cold air. He stared hard at the road.

_Biting you in the ass already_.

"She's dead. Died in a fire when I was four."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Sam," Dean said firmly. "Your dad. What's he do?"

"He's a mechanic. Owns half of the garage he works at."

Dean nodded. "Does he have a partner? A guy named Louis?"

"Yeah. Is your dad dead too?"

"No," Dean said. The windshield was beginning to fog up, and he turned up the heater. "You a student Sam?"

"Don't you want to know what I do?" The firefighter grumbled from the backseat.

"I know what you do, dumb ass," Dean smirked. "Bet the ladies love the uniform. So Sam, student? Yay or nay?"

"I'm a student," Sam said. "At Stanford."

"You must love it there," Dean said. The snow had started up again, and he flipped on the windshield wipers. "Fun, sun, pretty girls. Maybe a girlfriend?

Sam squirmed in his seat. "Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Libby." Sam paused. "Do you have a brother?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

Dean's fingers squeezed the Impala's steering wheel, his knuckles going white under the grip. "He's with a friend."

Sam was studying his expression with a careful kind of intensity his own Sam usually saved for complicated Latin translations. "What's his name?"

"You got your question already," Dean said.

"You went two in a row, now it's my turn."

Dean snorted. "Fine, smart ass. Samuel Michael Winchester. That's his full name."

"Our names are almost identical," Sam said with surprise.

"Almost?" Dean asked. "What's your name?"

"My middle name is Thomas," Sam explained, his breath now making visible puffs of cold air. "What about you. Do you have a name?"

"Of course I have a name. Why would I not have a name?" Dean asked testily. "It's Dean Fredrick Winchester."

There was a snort from the back. "Fredrick?"

"What the hell is your middle name, fire boy?" Dean asked, scowling.

"Christopher."

Identical green eyes glared at each other through the use of the rear view mirror. The back window was icing over, and Dean frowned at the heater as if scolding it.

"Are you human?" Sam asked bring Dean's attention back to the road and the young man next to him.

"100 percent."

Sam blinked. "But you're so fast. You beat up Dean! How are you so strong?"

"He got a few lucky punches," the firefighter grumbled.

Grinning, Dean eased the car around one of the tighter curves on the road. "Well, thank you kindly, but it's not your turn, and I prefer not to discuss my chosen profession with strangers."

The silence that suddenly filled the Impala was enough to make Dean swallow the words he wanted to use next. He almost didn't want to know.

"Do you have dreams, Sam? Dreams that sometimes come true?"

Sam's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What? No. I don't think so."

Dean looked hard at the image of his face that wasn't his face in the mirror. "Don't lie."

"I'm not lying," Sam insisted, the confusion still evident in his voice. "I have regular dreams."

"You're sure," Dean pressed. His foot hovered over the gas and the car slowed down from the lack of pressure. "You can say, "yes." Don't be afraid to say, "yes." I'll believe you."

Sam shook his head, his long bangs swinging. "No. Never."

Slowly, Dean pressed his foot against the accelerator until the car was back to a normal speed. Clearing his throat, he drove one handed for a moment, running his other hand through his short hair. It was then that he saw the ice forming in the corner of the windshield. Squinting, Dean leaned over the wheel to get a better look. The ice began to move then, spreading swiftly across the rest of the glass until Dean was unable to get a clear view of the road.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

A tall figure sailed out of the steering wheel, slamming Dean's answer out of his chest, and causing him to hit the breaks for the second time that night. The Impala fishtailed, and Dean was pushed back into the seat by the extra weight, pinned by a white hand that pressed painfully into each of his shoulders.

"Thief," a voice hissed into his ear, a cold gust of wind sliding through the now unmoving car as the temperature dropped.

It was a woman, or at least it had the general outline of a woman. Her skin was bone white, and cold to the touch. Long white hair draped down her shoulders floating about her head, falling into her round face and momentarily hiding her almond shaped eyes.

"Pay for what you took," she hissed leaning in close. Dean could see her neat even white teeth, and the icy lashes that framed her dark eyes.

Dean shrugged. "Sure. Do you want cash or credit?"

She hissed in response, arching her back before lifting her head, and displaying her neat even claws. Turning, she faced Sam who shrank away.

"Hey!" Dean shouted. "Ok, alright? I'll pay. What do you want?"

A lock of white hair floated under Dean's nose, tickling him. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.

"Outside," her voice finally whispered, her body already fading with a blast of another chilling wind. "We'll bargain."

"What the hell was that?" Dean heard his firefighting counterpart choke out as the last of the woman disappeared.

"Question and answer time is officially over," Dean said trying to rub the chill from his arms. "Stay in the car."

She was waiting for him in the middle of the road, her body caught in the yellow glow of the Impala's headlights. Dean started forward, the hilt of his knife warming in his palm, when his arms were suddenly thrown spread eagle. The knife stayed clutched in his hand, but his fingers felt as though they had been sewn to his palm. His toes pointed up, and he was dragged forward, the heels of his boots scraping across the pavement. He came to a stop in front of the woman, and she laid her palm against Dean's jacket, her expression unreadable.

"Thieves are not welcome in my home," she told him calmly.

"I didn't take anything that belonged to anyone," Dean said firmly.

The pale hand patted Dean's jacket, leaving an icy hand print behind, and the woman titled her head.

"You consider those yours?" Dean asked with a raised eyebrow. "Seriously?"

The woman shrugged. "Yes, and you have killed them. I cannot bring them back. What do you offer for their deaths?"

"Deaths?" Dean said. "Oh, come on lady. You've got to be kidding me."

"What do you offer for them?" she asked again.

"I don't suppose it will help my case if I tell you I need them for a good cause?"

The woman paused. "Explain."

Dean frowned. "I need them for my brother."

"You lie," the woman said, motioning towards the car. "He has no use for them."

"That is not my little brother," Dean growled out. His arms were beginning to cramp.

"You lie again."

"No, my little brother is-he's back home. That guy is the other Dean's little brother. The guy that's in the backseat."

"He is brother to both of you," the woman said simply. "You are brother to them. You share the same blood." Her head titled in the direction of the Impala. "Will you trade this brother for payment? I would accept that as a fair bargain."

The snow was melting in Dean's hair, and destroying the small pockets of warmth he'd made before getting out of the car. "No."

His toes snapped to kiss the ground and he almost fell forward.

"What will you give me?" the white woman asked again once Dean had regained his balance.

The cold was making his nose run, and Dean absentmindedly whipped it with the sleeve of his jacket.

"What do you want?"

"An apology," she started.

The words "I'm sorry" fell out of Dean's mouth. They seem to land in the space that was still between him and the woman, and she smiled a little.

"A good beginning," she said. "Now for the ending."

"I don't have to kiss you or anything, do I?" Dean asked. "Not that you're not a lovely example of really pale womanhood; I just like my women to be a little less floaty."

The woman laughed, a sound that reminded Dean of cracking icicles and snow crunching under his boots in the winter.

"You would taste far too warm," she answered. "You do not tempt me."

"Oh," Dean said. "Really?"

The witch laid her hand across the leather of Dean's jacket, and his entire body shivered at the contact.

"There are seeds here," she said. "Plant them. Let them grow, but do not use them. Their life will make up for their parent's death."

The wind caught the woman's white hair, and it snaked around her head and shoulders, never once blocking her face. "Do you agree to the bargain?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "We have a deal."

Dean watched as the woman's body seemed to break and shift until there was nothing left but small falling pieces of white. The word "Good" was left behind like a pale echo.

Slipping the knife back into his coat, Dean walked back to the Impala.

"So," Dean asked ignoring the white faced Sam that sat next to him, and the near panic in the face that watched him from the backseat. "Anyone got a music preference?"

* * *

Despite having the heater on at full blast, and a piece of tattered blanket tapped over the window, all three of the Impala's passengers were shivering by the time they pulled in front of the firehouse, and Sam's lips were colored a light shade of blue.

Dean ruffled the younger man's hair, which got him a cry of protest from the Dean in the backseat that he ignored. "I'm real sorry Sam, but you helped me and a couple other people out tonight, and I mean that." He paused. "Please don't be traumatized from this."

Sam's mouth opened and then shut with a snap. "Sure," he finally said.

He left Sam in the car with the heater running, but after cutting away the rope around big brother's feet, Dean hauled him into the cold. Pushing him against the side of the car, he placed a hand on either side of his shoulders and inspected his handy work.

"This where I get my apology?" The firefighter asked with a smirk, anger still burning in his eyes. "I mean, you did mess with a whole lot of my things. That blanket that you shredded. It was like an old buddy to me. And then there are the bullet holes in my car. Let me tell you, I love this car, but my mom worships it. After I tell her what you did to it, well, if you see a blond woman with a shot gun headed your way any time soon I'd suggest you duck or run for cover or-"

"Shut up," Dean said, calmly.

Ignoring the bait, Dean let go of the other man. Fishing around in his coat pockets he produced a pen and a scrap of paper. Hastily scribbling across the white surface he folded it twice and shoved it into the other man's breast pocket.

"Listen to me," Dean said. "If your brother starts having strange dreams, and they come true, if he starts talking about fires and seeing people on ceilings, if he starts seeing things that other people aren't, if he starts- if he does anything that hits a nine on your weird-shit-meter you follow the instructions I wrote down on that paper, and you come get me. Do you understand?"

"No," the firefighter admitted.

"Good," Dean said.

Dean slipped a knife out of the pocket of his jeans, and made quick work of the rope around the other man's hands. He pressed the knife into the firefighter's shaking fingers when he'd finished, and headed for the firehouse doors.

"Cut your brother loose," he called over his shoulder. "And don't throw that thing at me."

A comfortable heat surrounded him the minute he entered the station. The garage was empty, but he could make out a round faced black man, an Asian woman and several cops through a small window that must have led to an office. Sneaking by them and up the stairs, Dean made his way to the kitchen, and then to the closet door.

Standing in the darkness, Dean patted the pocket that had been sewn into the inside of his coat years ago. As his fingers wrapped around the brown paper bulge that he had stored there, some of the knots in his stomach loosened. Heading for the back of the closet he pushed several jars of spaghetti sauce out of the way until he could press his hand against the warm brick wall the shelf had been pushed against. Three sharp words said in a language that sounded harsh enough to be German, but that Dean knew had been used far before the creation of that language, and the world began to tilt.

He landed on his side, falling through a cluster of warm winter jackets that had been tucked away, and onto the hard wooden floor. One of them, large and made of some kind of fur, fell on top of him and he grumbled slightly as he pushed it off. Already he could feel the sticky spring heat settling around his skin and warming away the cold winter chill he'd just escaped from.

Untangling himself from the coats, he climbed to his feet and pushed the closet door open. Pastor Jim was waiting for him on the other side, his hand resting on a fevered Sam's forehead.

Seeing Dean, the older man stood, his hand remaining in contact with the younger Winchester.

"How is he?" Dean asked crossing the room eyes on his too pale brother.

"Did you get it," Pastor Jim asked, the bags under his eyes dark in the dim light. The sun was rising.

Dean reached into his coat. Retrieving the bag, he pressed it into the other man's hands.

"Yeah. No sweat."


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Firefighter, The Witch and The Closet

Author: Silverkit

Part: 5 of 5

Pairings: None

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Summary: Dean's apple pie life was going along quite nicely until a man stole his brother.

Spoilers: Through Nightmare in Season one

Author's Note: Love to my beta reader Michelle who is still an amazing person! A very big hug and thank you to everyone who has reviewed and enjoyed this story. It was fun while it lasted, but it's time to move on. I'm not sure if there will be any sort of sequel/prequel to this. Maybe, I'm still thinking about it. Enjoy the last chapter.

**Chapter 5-Dean Winchester, Firefighter**

Exhausted, Dean stumbled into his apartment, leading Sam in by the shoulder. The police had kept them late, asking them question after question while both of them fought to stay awake. The adrenaline he had been running had long past burnt out of his system and all he wanted to do was fall into bed. Gently pushing Sam towards the bedroom he headed for the kitchen.

"Go to sleep Sam," he said nodding towards the doorway. "I'll take the couch."

"Not going to take your bed," Sam said stubbornly.

"You are because I want to watch some T.V., and I can't do that with your freakishly tall body hanging all over my one good sitting spot."

"You need to get more furniture, Dean," Sam mumbled, walking towards the bedroom.

"Thank you Martha Stewart," Dean called to the retreating back.

Leaning against his kitchen counters Dean tilted his head back and took a moment to stare at the ceiling above him.

_If he starts talking about fires and women on ceilings…_

He shuddered, and quickly looked away.

Dean took the paper out of his breast pocket and studied it. Three words had been hastily scrawled across its white surface. He thought they might be German.

_My handwriting_ Dean thought.

So many things had been stolen from him tonight, but he'd gotten the most important thing back.

He heard the sound of rustling cloths, and the bed springs creaked as Sam settled in for the night. The bedroom door had been left open.

Below the words was a name, but he only read as far as 'Jim' before hastily folding the paper back together. For a moment he considered tossing the thing. The paper was light in his hand. One gust of wind would take it out the window or behind the fridge never to be seen again. A very large part of Dean wanted nothing more than to burn all memory of this night from both his and his brother's memories.

He moved across the tile and onto carpet, crossing to Dean's DVD collection. Flipping open his copy of _Willard_ he shoved the folded paper inside before snapping it closed.

_After the ropes had been sawed away from his hands, Sam had lunged for him, burying his face in Dean's chest, and shaking so hard Dean were sure he was going to fall into a thousand pieces at any moment. His response had been to grip the back of Sam's shirt, unsure if the shaking in his hands was from his own body or something Sam was passing over. _

"_We're cool, Sammy," he'd said, his own hands twisting through Sam's shirt. _

"_Yeah, we're cool," Sam had responded, his voice muffled against Dean's chest._

"_You're fine," Dean had repeated softly. "You're fine." _

Sliding the DVD case back onto the shelves, Dean stood ignoring the cracks of protest his knees gave out. Old baseball injuries.

The gun had been in the back seat, holstered and laying in a pool of broken glass. He'd shoved it into his jacket before leading Sam back into the firehouse, and now he laid it, unloaded, into the bottom drawer of his kitchen cabinets.

Collapsing into one of his kitchen chairs, Dean rested his head on top of his hands. Dean hadn't known how to explain the doppelganger or the white woman to the cops or even to himself. He didn't even want to think about what they'd have to tell his parents come morning. He hadn't known how the doppelganger had gotten the woman to leave the road, hadn't known what she'd wanted, hadn't known how to stop that thing from taking Sam, from terrifying him. Even though he hadn't, this monster look a like could have hurt Sam, taken him across state lines and done god knows what. Dean wouldn't have known where to look. The woman with claws had eyed his brother, and had she lunged, Dean would once again have had no clue how to get her off.

All and all, Dean was beginning to see how little he really knew, about anything.

He could fix that. The library would be open tomorrow, and there was an entire section of books on the history of Kansas, its legends and stories. He bet he could find something about a white witch that haunted the Beaver Caves. He could find someone to point him in the direction of a shooting range, get Martha to take him hunting for deer, and become a crack shot. This wouldn't happen again. Dean already knew how to handle one type of blaze, this would just be a matter of learning how to put out fires of a different kind.

The End

* * *

Again, I just have to thank all of the amazing people that took the time to review! It's such a great feeling, knowing that people enjoyed my story. Thank you, again and again. 


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